Imperial Conflict
by Silver-Fyre
Summary: The Rogues battle their greatest enemy - the 181st, Baron Fel's ace unit.


.Disclaimer: No, I don't own Turr. Wish I did! ; ) Nor do I own Fel or anyone else. They're Mike Stackpole's, although I think he should share. The whole Star Wars bit belongs to George Lucas and co., and he has my eternal hatred for tuning me into a Star Wars Junkie! (Didn't mean it!! Well, maybe about episode 1 . . .)  
  
Major Soontir Fel stepped into the dimly lit room, followed closely by his second, Captain Turr Phennir. Six darkly clad Imperial Intelligence officers sat in a half circle, silent. Two chairs were set in the center-- obviously meant for them. The general arrangement of the room seemed designed to intimidate, although neither Fel nor Phennir were.  
  
"Major Fel," began one of the officers, breaking the silence, "is it not highly irregular for a downed TIE pilot to survive?"  
  
"It is, sir", he replied, allowing a facade of military protocol mask whatever emotions he was feeling.  
  
"And is it not highly irregular for the said pilot to be rescued after his unit has left the system?" Imperial Interrogators frequently asked their victims to restate the obvious; they found it to be both unsettling and amusing.  
  
"It is, sir."  
  
"And yet this event, which many would regard as nothing short of a miracle, occurred in the midst of your unit, did it not?"  
  
"It did, sir." Fel vaguely wished the officer would make his point rather than flying around it indefinately.  
  
"My colleagues and I would have you tell us exactly how this came about, then, for seeming miracles are ours to investigate on behalf of His Imperial Highness."  
  
He wondered if they were insinuating that Phennir was gifted with the force; otherwise, there seemed to be no reason for the Emperor's interest in some lowly fighter captain. Personally, he believed that Phennir was both lucky and skilled but intelligence often overlooked these simple-yet- true explainations. He carefullly formulated a reply that would neither offend nor insinuate: "perhaps Captain Phennir should recount his experiences at Morravia Nine."  
  
"Yes, Captian," the intelligence officer hissed, "do tell."  
  
Phennir had both expected and dreaded this moment. As soon as he regained consciousness and the medic told him what a lucky bastard he was, he knew he would be grilled over and over again by the intel spooks. He made a mental note to never actually refer to them as such and tried to begin without sounding like a, well, flyboy.  
  
"Well, it all began about two weeks before in the Nerat Sector. We'd just got our transfer orders from high command to return to Coruscant, so everything was packed and on our mother ship. . ."  
  
"The Emperor's Courage, as I recall," interposed another officer who had not yet spoken.  
  
"Yes, the Emperor's Courage. So anyhow, we were on the ship and were getting ready to make the jump to hyperspace when we get this message from some cargo transport a couple systems over saying she'd been jumped by the Rebels. Well, we decided to. . ."  
  
"Phennir, perhaps you'd best make your point. I'm sure they have all read the briefings from the Nerat Sector encounter and . . ."  
  
"Allow him to tell this in his own way," a third officer insisted.  
  
"Thank you, sir, and as I was saying," Phennir continued, '"Major Fel and the captain of the Courage, Laine or something like that, decied to go help the cargo cruiser . . ."  
  
*****  
  
"Wait, cancel that jump, Nav" Lieutenant Commander Barek, the comms officer for the Courage, ordered. The ship lurched. I stumbled, catching myself on a guard rail. "We've got a distress call coming in from an unindentified military cargo transport, class unknown, cargo unknown."  
  
"It could be a deception," Fel replied. One thing about Major Fel -- he's an absolute pessimist. I guess that's a good thing in a commanding officer, and I like serving under him because he knows what he's doing and he's nicer than he'd have you think, but sometimes it can get really annoying.  
  
"They're one of ours. We can't just sit here," countered Captain Laine, Alan's his first name, I think, something delicate and Alderaani like that. We'd only been on his ship about three weeks, so I didn't really have a chance to figure out why he hadn't defected with Alderaan's destruction, but I guess he had his own reasons. I knew an Alderaani guy who left. I can't say I blame him, but I don't think I'd defect even if they blasted my homeworld. I've lived so many places, sometimes I wonder if I even have one.  
  
"If it actually is one of ours."  
  
"I believe that's a chance we need to take. If something looks out of place, we can leave or fight, depending, but ignoring this undermines everything the Empire stands for." And still an idealist. Weird.  
  
"In that case, we should hurry while there still is something to rescue."  
  
Nav plotted the jump and the Captain gave the go-ahead. It was only a few seconds before we fell back into realspace, where already some TIEs were dogfighting a mismatched group of what looked like Rebel craft.  
  
"Sir, the distress signall is from the Horn of Plenty, a standard hauling craft, has all Imperial markings et cetera et cetera, and, best I can tell, is friendly. They've got some heavy shield damage and the begginings of hull scoring. I don't think she can take much more, sir."  
  
"Understood,'" replied the Captain. He activated the shipwide comm system. "Major Fel, dispatch your fighters. Engineering, shields full power. Weapons, man all laser turrets and ion cannons. Crew, we are engaging in combat, man your battle stations, repeat, engaging in combat, man your battle stations. Captain over."  
  
Fel and I ran for the elevator, running it full speed down to our launch hangar. Once we got to the right level, I grabbed my flight suit and pulled it on, still running. Most of our men were already in their TIEs, beginning preflight and calling off to their captains. Finally, the Major's obsessive little speed drills seemed to be paying off, although I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. As a rule, he never did anything without a really good reason.  
  
I began my squadron, the sixth's, preflight. Everyone reported in with military precision -- yet another think Fel really made us practice. It's not as if I hadn't seen combat before -- an ace after three engagements, currently at thirty-nine confirmed kills -- but it never ceased to amaze me how all our drilling paid off. We were the Empire's best pilots, but I don't think we would have been as good without the Empire's best commander.  
  
We flew a standard Delta attack -- three flights, two pairs in each. My wingman, Flight Officer Darin Caterel, was not one of our better pilots but could easily be the best in any other unit. He was only a month out of the academy, still pretty fresh, so I think Fel assigned him to me because he thought I could help him get better and keep him alive, but we flew well enough together so it wasn't a problem for me.  
  
"Six leader, squadron report." My voice was scratchy over the comm.  
  
"Six deuce, standby."  
  
"Six three, standby."  
  
"Six four, standby."  
  
"Six five, standby."  
  
The rest of the squadron continued their call in with the same precision. We broke into three flights -- me, with flight one, Lt. Casey Ledan, flight two, and Lt. Ayerin Tylor, flight three. Ledan had been under Fel since before we were made an elite unit and Tylor had logged more combat hours than me. They were both very good and very competent and had a good feel for what they were doing and I knew I could count on them.  
  
Fel's voice cracked over the comms. "Men, we have about three dozen Rebel ships, mostly X-Wings but also a few Y-Wings and B-Wings. Your main trouble will be the X-Wings. Don't forget -- you may be both faster and more maneuverable but they have shields and hyperdrives. When they realize their failure, many will try to escape through the asteroid field and jump to another system. Two and Six, get between the asteroids and the main engagement. Four and Five, cover the Courage; One and Three, liberate the Horn of Plenty. Major out."  
  
Two Lead offered to take the left flank, leaving me the right. Our deployment went smoothly -- again, the endless drilling paid off. I was surprised to see both One and Three squadrons take losses; the Rebels were better than I'd've given them credit for. Sure, the Y-Wings were pretty much gone, but the B-Wings were taking out a lot of our ships and the some of the X-Wing jocks were flying just as well or better than we were. Already, these were the worst casualities we'd taken in some time.  
  
Almost too soon, the surviving Rebels were doing just what Fel had said -- running for the asteroid field. They were headed right for us. Foolishly, I thought at the time. They might be good, but we were had the logistical advantage and were better anyhow.  
  
"One flight, we have lead element. On me," I ordered over the comm. Caterel was on me, a bit close, but otherwise fine. Three and Four were a bit behind and left of us, but otherwise flying tight. I noticed my torp lock warning light flash on. I juked a bit, letting it slide past me and into an asteroid. "This is lead, watch for torps," I warned. I guess I didn't warn them soon enough, because seconds later Four went out with a bang, if you get my drift.  
  
"Three, on my element," I ordered, preparing to make a run on the lead X-Wings.  
  
"As ordered," he replied, sounding shaken. I guess I was a bit shaken too, thinking back. Officer Trent Fryske, better known as Four or Frisky, was another throwback to the pre-elite-unit days and was kind enough to welcome me with a rundown of the squadron when I got command. It wasn't so much helpful as it was amusing, and you couldn't help but like the man.  
  
I tried to ignore the ache forming in my gut and scored across one of the lead X-Wing's s-foils. He turned down and around on his good foil, and I made a tight turn to follow him. He took me, and Deuce, on a merry run through the asteroids, trying to salvage what maneuverability he had left. Despite our advantages, it took me a few minutes to finish him off and Deuce had nearly been crushed between the rocks.  
  
"Bastard!" someone's voice cracked over the comm. It sounded like Eleven. "Nine's gone!" I sped back into the dogfight, hoping I hadn't missed too much.  
  
"Eleven, he's on your tail!" I warned, taking a quick glance at the battle I had just returned to. I broke right and got on the X-Wing's tail, scoring a clean shot into his rear exhaust which made the engine blow a second later. I broke again, looping onto another one's tail, but he had enough of a lead that I knew he would make it into hyperspace. I turned back to the main fight, intending to jump back in, but most of the Rebels were gone. Four and Five squadrons had already flown back to the Courage, what remained of One and Three followed, and my squadron and Two brought up thre rear, not having done much better than One and Three. Fel would not be pleased.  
  
******  
  
"So you say these casualties still affected your unit two weeks later at Morravia Nine?" asked the intelligence oficer, a feral edge entering his voice.  
  
"Yes," Major Phennir replied.  
  
"Even though many squadrons consider seventy-six percent overall survival favorable in similar engagements?"  
  
"I don't think it's the number killed, sir, but the fact that any were killed at all. I mean, in the past, we've gone months at a time without loosing anybody, being who we are, and it kind of got to us all that it was all at once. It was rough, for a while, and then since we never did make it to Coruscant . . ."  
  
******  
  
We stood at attention in our ranks facing Major Fel. It was two days after the battle. Imperial memorial services were always held two days after the battle, I guess to give the officers time to write some kind of eulogy and send letters home to people's families. I had to write a few of those myself -- he served the Empire well, he died in honor, etc., etc.. I always tried to put something personal in, though, so it wouldn't sound like some bullshit form letter. I hope it made grieving easier on their families, because it didn't make it much easier on me. How do you summarize a man in five hundred words or less?  
  
"Soldiers of the Empire," he began. All of a sudden, I saw just how good I had it over Fel. I'll never see Fryske's family, but I've got to work with these people day after day after day until we wind up as space dust in some obscure system where you get a mention in some collective memorial service two days later. Funerals always make me sarcastic. "We are gathered here today to mourn the deaths of our fallen comrades. They died in honor . . . glory . . . and service to the Empire. Let us have a moment of silence to remember them."  
  
Fel moved off to the side, subtly watching our reactions. I was stunned. We were stunned. Some of these things went on for hours and hours all all he said was something like three sentences. I think, though, that he said what needed to be said. Any less would be an insult; any more would be unneccessary. And it did last hours. The entire wing, by no one's command, stood in a silent tribute to those who were gone.  
  
******  
  
"Customarily, a period of mourning is permitted after which the battle is analyzed. Why did this fail to prevent the issues you speak of?"  
  
"I believe the underlying problem was beyond what mourning could cure," interposed Major Fel. "I believe it is something only time could heal."  
  
"Yeah," Phennir nodded in agreement. "Only time could heal. . . "  
  
******  
  
I knew Darin Caterel was friends with Trent Fryske, Six-four, but I don't think I ever realized how close they were. Sure, we all knew they sat at the same lunch table, talked to the same people, shared a lot of outside interests, but it was beyond what any of us expected.  
  
He missed four sim sessions, three patrols, a few squad meetings -- and he knew Fel didn't tolerate that shit. Nor did I, except that I warned people first before I got them in serious trouble. It was like he couldn't function, was simply too wrapped up in grief to come out and say "hi" now and then. I tried to talk to him a few times and ask him why he was slacking, but all I found was the same wall of silence he gave everyone. He was living in his own little world.  
  
*******  
  
"So anyhow, things were a little messed up before Morravia Nine, and I think it really affected our flying," finished Phennir.  
  
"A touching story, indeed," replied the intelligence officer, "however, it does sound rather unrelated to the matter at hand, as I'm sure you must admit." He nodded almost deferentially at Fel.  
  
"No, it's important," countered Phennir, determined to tell the story his own way. "Because that's why I didn't have a wingman when we flew the raid."  
  
*******  
  
About two weeks after the Nerat Sector, the Major got orders from High Command telling us to strafe a Rebel fighter base on this little moon called Morravia Nine. Morravia was a gas giant that lacked any commerical value and was pretty far from the better traveled trade routes. The ninth moon was the only one capable of sustaning life; one through eight were little more than asteroids. There was one other planet in the system, called Erde, I think, which was basically a cratered rock. Anyhow, the ninth moon had a forty percent oxygen atmosphere with no standing water and temperatures varying between thirty-eight and forty-nine degrees Celsius, to quote the Imperial Almnacia Galactica. It seemed like a pretty shitty spot to build a military base, if you ask me, but then again, nobody did.  
  
On the other hand, Rebel scum seemed to thrive in the galaxy's worst places. I mean, anyone who tries to build a base on a planet like Hoth has to be more than a little crazy to begin with. Still, I almost had to respect their guts. It's one thing, I guess, to fight in an army accepted and encouraged but a totally different one to go Rebel, as we say. I think Fel respected them more than he'd like to admit, which may be why had had the best luck of anybody killing them. Pirates were scum but Rebels were a different kind of scum.  
  
I guess the scum found out what we planned, because when we got there, they had a nasty little surprise waiting for us.  
  
*******  
  
"Would you care to elaborate on the importance of a wingman, Captain?" queried the most vocal intelligence officer. He did not ask from personal curiosity, since he had read many Imperial texts mandating the wingman system; rather, he wished to test this rather uppity flyboy.  
  
Phennir looked scandalized; Fel, choosing to take the initiative in explaing conventions to the non-pilots and inadvertently vexing his offensive, replied, "Most pilots find it helpful to have someone they know will be nearby, should they need assistance. Experience proves that squadrons do better with wingmen than independent maneuvers."  
  
"So you had no one near when you were hit." He glanced at Phennir.  
  
"Well, no one paying me much attention, sir. They were too buisy watching their own backs. So I guess it's my own fault I got caught between an X-Wing and that moon without backup."  
  
*******  
  
We'd decided to head in about two-fifty, three hundred klicks from the moon, near the outer planet. I argued against, saying that we needed to jump in closer and save fuel for the strafing. Fel wanted us even further out, predicting a surprise attack in his usual pessimistic way and said that we could just refuel if it was a routine strafing run. We compromised, but he got more ground in the end. That turned out to be a good thing, because, as usual, he was right.  
  
The second we reverted to realspace, we were greeted by at least two squads of X-Wings, a couple squads of Y-Wings, and some small freighters and other support craft. The comm officer, who I remembered only for his annoying nasal voice, reflexively ordered our fighters to scramble. Fel looked a bit pissed at his cheek but we ran down to the launchers anyhow.  
  
Like I said earlier, Caterel, my wingman, was having some serious coping problems, but I thought a little strafing run would help him more than being put on the sick lists. A dogfight was an entirely different matter, though, so I ran up to his TIE just as he was climbing in.  
  
"Caterel," I barked. "You're not flying." I can be a real bad ass when I want to, and this time I wanted to. Any commanding officer worth his rank knows that you don't let an emotional wreck fly combat, period. He gets himself killed and he gets his squadmates killed and I had no wish to loose more men than we already had.  
  
"Why," he asked very sarcastically. Normally, he was pretty good natured, or at least as much as anyone else, but there was this venom in his whole body I'd never seen before and I hope never to see again.  
  
"Because you're not fit to fly."  
  
"Take me out, you got no wing. Rest of the squadron's paired off."  
  
"I'll fly alone."  
  
"You'll get yourself killed."  
  
"You'll get us all killed."  
  
"Is that an order or a suggestion, SIR?" I guess he was trying to give me one last chance to reconsider, but his unusual mouthiness pretty much ended any chance of that.  
  
"Order," I replied, trying to sound even more bad-assy. Fel is better at it, but I think I got the point across.  
  
"Bastard," he whispered, and stalked off. For those of you who haven't been in the Imperial army, cussing at an officer to his face is a bad idea, but I was too buisy to worry about it then. I jumped into my own TIE, and ran preflight before leading the launch. Once we were out of the bay, I began the call-in:  
  
"Six-leader, standby."  
  
"Six-three, standby." He was flying Ten's wing, which I was a little worried about because they both tend to lead.  
  
"Six-five, standby." Case sounded pretty okay, but he was a vet and probably used to it.  
  
"Six-six, standby."  
  
"Six-seven, standby."  
  
"Six-eight, standby." Eight hadn't been flying as well, either, but Fel'd had a talk with him so he was probably alright if he was still flying.  
  
"Six-ten, standby."  
  
"Six-eleven, standby."  
  
"Six-twelve, standby." Twelve was the man I'd picked to lead three flight and promote to Lieutenant. His name was Jarik Indigo, was your typical Corellian hot shot, and one of the best at atmosphere flying. He was also a good leader, but I'd picked Tylor and Case over him because he'd been a rookie at the time.  
  
We formed up into two elements and one loner. Case's flight was in its usual sharp formation, and Jarik seemed indecently cocky for someone just promoted. Then again, he was Corellian, so that shouldn't have come as a surprise.  
  
Something I've noticed about myself -- I always worry about my men more than me. I guess it's because if they die, I'll feel responsible but if I die, my problems are pretty much over.  
  
Anyhow, we formed up with the other squadrons in an attack pattern slightly different from your standard Delta. One and Three were covering the Scarlet Epsilion, our current ship, and the rest of us were forming into a tight knot. Attack Pattern Starbust was Fel's own little baby, and it was good for disguising your numbers and then exploding into the enemy from all directions. I hoped it would surprise the Rebels, who were just doing Delta.  
  
I overheard Fel comming last-minute instructions to the other Captains. Two was oriented "up", Four and Five were oriented to the sides, and my squadrons was furthest "down". Direction is all relative in space, but I'm better than most at keeping things straight.  
  
The Rebels faced our onslaught fairly well. The best thing to counter our Starburst, as we found out in sim, is to slip sideways and then pounce on the TIEs flying outwards. Surprisingly, most of the X-Wing managed to do this followed by the Y-Wings an instant later.  
  
Instinctively, I jerked away from the one on my tail and pounced another, unencumbered by a wingman.  
  
"I'm hit," Three yelped over the comm. He exploded before he had a chance to elaborate. That's the problem with TIEs -- You get hit, you get killed.  
  
I slid over to Ten, strafing an X-Wing and taking Three's position. I followed him in an arc, then dodged a proton torp.  
  
"They've got torps!" I warned, hoping my people would pay more attention to their missile lock indicators. Moments later, Ten dodged a torp only to fly straight into an X-Wing's sights. I tried to get him, but he managed to juke my fire as he was strafing Ten. He spun away, heading into the action. The only shots I got in went wild; then, there were TIEs between us and I couldn't do much else.  
  
"Hey, Leader, I've got a tail and he's good," Twelve said as he juked away from the laser fire.  
  
"On him," replied Eleven.  
  
"No! Don't! You've gotta watch . . ." Twelve didn't get a chance to finish before the Y-Wing Eleven had ignored knocked his engines out with his Ion cannon.  
  
I streaked past a few TIEs from Five squadron and tackled the guy on Twelve's tail. Twelve was right -- the pilot juked away from my fire as he kept him in his sights. We continued like this as Twelve took the Rebel and me on a merry chase. Abruptly, the Rebel dodged and hit another target, Seven.  
  
"Twelve, cover Eight," I ordered. "I'm going after him."  
  
"Copy, Leader," he replied, sounding a bit too happy that he didn't have to fight him.  
  
It didn't take me long to figure out that he was even better than Twelve said he was. His fighter was both less agile and slower but I still could barely keep up with him. He was unpredictable; usually, I could almost anticipate the enemy's moves but he was a mystery to me. He dragged us in and out of the fray, always careful to avoid the fire of others as well as mine. Barring Major Fel, I don't think I've fought anyone that good before or after him.  
  
*******  
  
"So you were unable to 'shake', as you say, this enemy fighter," asked the one who Phennir had already taken an intense disliking to.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And yet, they say you are a good pilot."  
  
"If the Major doesn't mind my quoting him, there's always someone better than you. And he was better than me. Maybe even better than the Major."  
  
"Better than me, the best pilot in the whole Imperial navy," asked Fel, in a tone that almost implied a bit of levity. A few of the interrogators instinctively frowned at that.  
  
"I don't know, but if you ever go against him, I wanna watch."  
  
*****  
  
I could only keep up with him so long, and I knew it. At the same time, I knew I couldn't just turn away, go back to the fight, because I couldn't let my squadron down. I'd never forgive myself if I did.  
  
I blew a few precious seconds to check the rest of the fight. Between the casualties we took before and what we were taking now, we would be spending a long time on Coruscant rebuilding. I was vaguely aware that my squadron was at half-strength already and that One and Three had started out with less. So much for being an elite unit. These Rebels were tearing us apart.  
  
On the other hand, they weren't doing that well, either. Some of the surviving X-Wings were sheparding the retreating Y-Wings away from the battle. I turned towards them, seeing my opportunity.  
  
The klicks closed fast, and before I knew it, we were almost to their moon. The X-Wing saw it too and made a tight three-sixty. I tried to overshoot him a bit and then copy his move but he was on me too fast. I couldn't go back, because TIEs don't go in reverse. I couldn't go left, because that put me even closer into his sights and I couldn't go right, because then I'd slam into some pretty big orbiting crap. That left me with forwards.  
  
I never believe in doing things halfheartedly, so I threw her into full throttle and darted ahead. Finally, I'd managed to surprise the scum. Problem was, he had a friend and I didn't and I'd flown right into that bastard's sights. He clipped of one of my solar arrays completely off and joined his few remaining friends in torping my ship for a final time. Her shields, already weakened, buckled under their fire and the final torp broadsided her. She hopped system, leaving me alone in space minus a solar array and any sign of help.  
  
*******  
  
"So the pilot escaped and your TIE was sans one solar array."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why didn't he kill you then?"  
  
"Because a TIE without a solar array is as good as dead. That halves your power, thrust, lasers, not considering damage to the control pod and destroying all maneuverability. I guess he didn't think it was worth the effort."  
  
"I'm beginning to wonder if this execised is truly worth our effort. We have learned nothing of interest from these, ahem, flyboys," interposed a different interrogator.  
  
"But we may yet. All knowledge is useful in some form; as you know, monotony is our truest enemy and is frequently found when gathering information," the primary interviewer replied.  
  
"Continue, Captain Phennir."  
  
*******  
  
I was screwed. Really, really, screwed. I knew all too well the only reason the Rebels hadn't killed me -- it simply wasn't worth the effort. I'd die eventually; there was no way for me to leave the system, and they couldn't come back for me now, not even if I activated my emergency beacon or tried to comm them because I was pretty deep in enemy teritory and our ship'd got hit bad enough already.  
  
What the Rebel didn't know was just how much killing I was going to take. I could feel my TIE being pulled towards the moon, and I figured that if I used my remaining thruster to get into the lower atmosphere and then hit at a flat enough trajectory, I might be able to jump out before I blew up. It wasn't a very good plan, probably pretty stupid in any realistic terms, but at least it was something to do while I waited to die. I hate long waits.  
  
It started out pretty well. The TIE's speed picked up as it sailed closer to the moon. Unfortunately, I really hadn't planned on it speeding up so by the time I was cutting through the atmosphere I didn't even know if I could slow it down enough to even consider bailing.  
  
That's when I decided I wasn't gonna die. I'd survived too many dogfights, too many nerf-assed commanders, too much general shit and now I'd finally got a promotion, finally looked like I might get somewhere, that I wasn't going to blow it by becoming a Rebel kill marker, so I checked my altitude, yanked out the beacon, flipped the hatch and jumped.  
  
It was only about twenty feet off the ground and even though it was pretty much solid rock, I kinda managed to roll as I fell, so I wasn't hurt too bad. I'd cradled both the beacon and my flight arm against my chest, so best I could tell they'd both function. If either broke, I might as well be dead.  
  
Seconds later, I heard the TIE blow. It was almost pretty, in some royally perverse sense of it -- all the flaming shrapnel made it look almost like the fireworks Coruscant'd set off on the Emperor's birthday.  
  
I began testing myself for injuries. For starters, I could taste the blood rolling down my face. I think I might have hit my head, because I started getting a little woozy. My left leg hurt, and I couldn't feel my right leg at all. Luckly, my right arm, the one I fly with, seemed okay and the little red light on the beacon activated when I hit the button, so I knew there was some hope.  
  
The last thing I asked myself before I passed out into the painless darkness -- how the hell am I supposed to find water on a planet that doesn't have any?  
  
*******  
  
"So you turned the beacon on before you collapsed, Captain?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It surprises me that he is mostly healed," commented another officer.  
  
"That's because I spent, I think, something like a week in bacta after they set the broken bones. They said that fixed up the dehydration and heat stroke, too."  
  
'"And you managed to crawl to your tie and retrieve the water rations before it exploded?"  
  
"Yes. That was the worst test of will -- I had to make myself crawl over all those jagged rocks and stuff before the TIE blew because I knew I'd die without it. The medics said that I couldn't have survived if I hadn't gotten them."  
  
"He's always been a bit of a survivor, gentlemen," said the Major. "We didn't pick up the signal until we had entered the Carrevi Sector, about twelve hours away. . ."  
  
*******  
  
My office was small, cramped, and lifeless, the last of which was somehow apt for what I had set out to do, namely, write letters to all the familes of the dead. Some were easy, because I didn't know them particularly well or because it was easy to speak well of their virtues. Others were harder; the condolences I sent to the mother of the most egotistical little snot ever sired rang particualarly false in my ears. Worst, I think, were the letters about people I liked and still grieved for. I lost good officers, men who deserved many more years in the service of the empire.  
  
I'd managed to finish most of the easy and some of the harder before I forced to stop writing. I couldn't go on. I know some of my squadron commanders were having the same difficulties; at least they didn't have to write one for every man on the list.  
  
At any rate, I decided a brief caf break was in order, possibly followed by reading the latest letter from my wife, Wynssa. She never wrote of any substance, deliberately, I believe, for which I was very thankful. She would tell me which of my plants were in bloom, or which play or holo she was acting in (I always lost track), or which excesses were currently in vouge amongst the Coruscani elite. I needed the reprieve from duty she offered, and I think she needed my seriousness as well. We would both have preferred to be together more often.  
  
I noted the cluster of men surrounding the dead list I'd posted. It included both the confirmed kills off our flight cams and the men missing in action, which is essentialy the same, although the latter are unprovable. There seemed to be a fight brewing; I had learned to recognize the signs of it long ago.  
  
"Look, David, it's not your fault." It was Ledan, although I believe I'm the only one who still doesn't refer to him as "Case", which he prefers.  
  
"Yes, it is." Phennir hadn't the chance to tell me why he was flight- grounded in the last fight before he died. I'd been grooming him as my second; Derricote was incompetent so I took charge of his duties and had Phennir take charge of mine.  
  
"No, it's not. You're still a little wired from the Nerat Sector; cool off, you'll be fine soon enough."  
  
"I might as well have fired the shot that vaped him! He didn't have a wing because I didn't fly. I wasn't there to cover his back, so some goddamn bloody Rebel got him."  
  
I presumed that Caterel had fought Phennir's orders and decided to use this before the Rebel scourge claimed another victim.  
  
"Did Phennir order you grounded?" I asked.  
  
"Yes, but . . ."  
  
"Then it was his mistake to fly without a wingman, not yours." I surprised myself with the utter lack of emotion in my voice.  
  
Caterel stalked off, obviously unmoved by any reasoning.  
  
"I apologize, sir," Brevet Captain Ledan began, presuming he'd done something wrong.  
  
"No offense taken," I replied. "If you have trouble no one will think ill of you if you ask me or one of the other more experienced captains for help." Battlefield promotions are never as simple as routine ones.  
  
"Thank you, sir," he replied, sounding relieved. He saluted and left.  
  
I trudged back to my office and began reading the letter. My father called before she wrote, informing her that I had another nephew and two neices and then asked if we were planning to have any children. To say that I have a large family is an understatement of the highest degree; I'm the eldest of nine and most of my siblings married before me. Apparently, they've been busy carrying out the family tradition home on Corellia and I've been lax in my duties. I hope he didn't offend her too much; I'm sure he meant well, even if he can be a bit rustic.  
  
An aide knocked at the door. Aides are, without any exception I've met, the most irritating military personnel to have any contact with, mostly because they have a universal sense of self-importance matched in degree only by their lack of it. He seemed to be no different.  
  
"Message for you, Major Fel, sir!" he exclaimed, saluting. I ignored it, being in no mood to tolerate his antics.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Comm's picked up an emergency beacon from one of your ships, sir. It's comming from the Morravia Sector. I suppose we're so low on pilots we'll be going after him, sir?" He didn't have to remind me incessantly, repeatedly of what had happened. It was my failure and Maker knows I had no trouble admiting it, neither needing nor wanting his ingnorant remarks. I bit down the urge to insult him with great difficulty.  
  
He paused to breathe before continuing. "The Captain wants to know if you intend to go back for him, sir. We plan to move out in a few hours."  
  
I pondered the issue, deliberately forcing the aide to wait for a reply. Going back would mean a delay somewhere between twenty-four and forty-eight hours, which was something the Imperial navy universally discouraged. The pilot may have already died, or it could be a Rebel trap. However, if indeed one of our pilots could be rescued, it would both lift morale and spare the expense of finding and training a replacement. I compromised.  
  
"Have the Captain dispatch an armed shuttle to trace the beacon. We'll rendezvous in the next sector. Lt. Merith, in the fifth squadron, has clearance; he'll pilot."  
  
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"  
  
"Don't forget to send a medic. If indeed he has survived, he'll probably need one."  
  
"Yes, sir.'  
  
*******  
  
"So you responded to the beacon?"  
  
"I believed it would be more efficient than training a replacement."  
  
"Medical costs, retrival delays. . . you must value your pilots."  
  
"The 181st is an elite unit, sir. A pilot must already have training, be distinguished in combat, and fulfil a multitude of other requirements. Most officers would rather not give up their finest. Replacements are hard to come by."  
  
"I see. And you, Phennir. Arid, rocky, less moisture than Tatooine. However did you survive?"  
  
"Not easily," the Captain truthfully replied.  
  
*******  
  
The next thing I remember is waking up to the sound of voices.  
  
"Okay, TIE's scrapped. Let's go back to the base and get off this bloody rock."  
  
"Hey, look at this."  
  
"Ohh! Klivan found some wreckage!"  
  
"Red paint! These guys were the One-Eighty-Worst!"  
  
"I hope we got Fel."  
  
"Wes, Hobbie, I know you're upset, but please try to remeber that he taught you to fly and don't talk about him so."  
  
"Tycho!"  
  
I thought I was screwed before. Now I knew I was screwed. Not only did they have some personal thing with Fel, but I'd heard lots of stories about what Rebels do to their prisoners and none of them were nice. At best they kill you, at worst . . . well, some things shouldn't be repeated. I kept still, hoping that they wouldn't notice me.  
  
"Hey, Captain, is that the pilot?"  
  
Damn.  
  
"Looks like it, Hobbie."  
  
"He's not moving."  
  
"So he's either dead or faking. A couple shots and no more problem."  
  
"Maybe we should take him back to base before we kill him, Wes. Intel might get mad if we don't."  
  
I was beginning to wish that no one had told me those stories.  
  
"I'll go see if he's okay, Captain. I suppose it's my job anyways."  
  
"Thanks, Tycho. And once again I'm sorry you got suckered into being the 'medic'."  
  
I heard footsteps coming towards me. I vaugely hoped that this Tycho person couldn't tell I was faking but I didn't think it likely. I felt a hand on my throat.  
  
"He's alive."  
  
"Okay, so kill him and let's go."  
  
"Janson, shut the hell up. Captain, what do you want me to do?"  
  
Maybe if I waited a little longer, I could take them out before they got me. At least one or two of them. Maybe.  
  
"What do you think, Tycho?"  
  
"I'm surprised you have to ask that, Wedge."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I was an Imperial pilot once. It took the death of my planet for me to see the evil, but I did and I know I've helped the Rebellion since. Killing in a dogfight is one thing, but even as an Imp I wouldn't kill a wounded prisoner and I certainly won't now."  
  
"Do what you can to make him comfortable; he'll die, regardless, in the heat."  
  
Well, shoot me, dammit. Get it over with. I thought Rebels were big into mercy killings.  
  
"Let's see how bad you're hurt."  
  
I felt him pull an eylid open and I used it to look around. The ones they called Jansen and Hobbie were picking through the wreckage of my TIE. That was disrespectful enough; worse, Captain Wedge was the only one not wearing discarded military fatigues, IMPERIAL I might add. Tycho looked the part of the Alderaani pacifist; it amazed me that he'd have ever piloted for us. I guess that's how he wound up medic.  
  
He looked at me kinda funny, so I decided to drop the pretense a bit and gave him my best intimidating stare.  
  
"Ohh, so you are concious." He smiled. I wanted to kill him so bad, the little Rebel bastard. "Don't worry, I won't let them kill you. Believe me, I know how it is over there all to well. I used to fly under Fel."  
  
I think he was waiting for a reply, so I didn't give him one.  
  
"So it's like that? Pity. Here, don't worry about this, just a painkiller. Nasty crash, I'm surprised you survived. I got banged up something awful back on Malress Six. Pretty place. Your friends got two of my s-foils, and it was hell to land her."  
  
Apparently, he talks to himself a lot.  
  
"You got the beacon." He dropped his voice to an awed whisper. "You might live. We'll be gone in two hours, so don't think we'll be here long enough for them to catch us. Here's some water. If you still don't trust me, drink it when we're gone or wait 'til you really get thirsty. You know, you're too good for the empire. We could use you over here."  
  
Like hell, scum.  
  
"You're not just a number, and we take care of our own. Think about it. It's only a matter of time before you get that little wake-up call about the Empire. Fel, too. Is he still alive? Tell him Cadet Celchu wishes him the worst of hunting but the best of luck, if you catch my drift. He's a good man, even if he is an Imp."  
  
Imp. Not much of an insult, coming from scum. Hah.  
  
"Take care of yourself, and if you ever see a Rebel in need, return the favor, okay?"  
  
He left, mercifully. As did his his friends. I bet they're all gay. At least they had to walk back. I guess I'm being childish, but I learned to hate the Rebellion young.  
  
And it's not like they're a bunch of goody-goodies either. I had a kid brother, Myron. Followed me into the millitary; pretty hot hand with a TIE. Got stationed on the Death Star and died in what the scum calls the Battle of Yavin. Not to mention all the guys we lost to them, and I don't mean through desertions. Sure, they act all high-and-mighty, but they're not. No better than we are, I thought, which is when I started doubting. I don't think anyone in my squad would help a Rebel. Ever. Maybe shoot him, like, we wouldn't torture anyone, but I don't think we'd help them, either.  
  
I drank the water and decided to sleep a little longer.  
  
*******  
  
"And the recovery team did locate you?"  
  
"Yeah. I was getting real delusional by then, and I think the heat and dryness were getting to me. I don't really remember much of the rescue, just waking up in medbay and being told what a lucky bastard I was. Er, sorry, didn't mean that word."  
  
Fel flashed Phennir his infamous Look. Braver men had fallen to it, and Phennir was greatly chastized by it  
  
"Of what nature were these delusions?"  
  
"Um, just odd stuff. Like when you dream, it's always weird stuff you're thinking about. Like I dream about paperwork and TIEs and people saying things they wouldn't say, only other people say them. Did that make any sense?"  
  
"What did you dream of?"  
  
"The usual. TIEs, dogfights, nothing really. Why?"  
  
"We are asking the questions, not you, Captain." Fel sympathized with Phennir; he, too, was more than a little curious. Again, he wondered if they thought Phennir force-sensitive.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"We have no more to ask of you. Major Fel, Captain Phennir, dismissed."  
  
The pilots saluted. The intelligence officers didn't. Accepting their tacit dismissal, Fel turned sharply on his heel and left. Phennir copied and followed in step a few paces behind. An hour or so later, they had maneuvered through the maze of halls in the military complex to their squadron's own hangar, where Colonel Evir Derricote awaited the men who kept him in command.  
  
"Phennir," Fel stated the name without emotion. "An epic tale. I'm surprised you managed to save yourself. Not many could."  
  
He detected the undertone of disbelief in his commander's words. "I guess I got lucky again, sir."  
  
"Lucky you had those water rations."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"They aren't standard for a dogfight, you know."  
  
"Let's just say I got a had an unexpected break from an anonymous source."  
  
"Namely. . ."  
  
He lowered his voice to level below a whisper. "Cadet Celchu wishes you the worst of hunting and the best of luck."  
  
"I'm not surprised, really," he whispered back.  
  
"That he survived the past couple years or that he helps his enemy?"  
  
"Neither."  
  
Phennir didn't reply. After a moment's thought, neither did Fel. The conversation had become too dangerous for their liking.  
  
A brief time later, the men found themselves surrounded by their true loves in life, namely, TIEs. In Fel's case, a certain beautiful blonde- haired, blue-eyed actress wearing the coy smile that broke Fel's flyboy heart whenever he saw it could also be included. It tended to leave Phennir a bit tounge-tied, to say the least.  
  
"'tir, I'm so glad you made it back," she whispered, gently brushing his lips. He restrained himself, trying not to make Phennir jealous. Well, not too jealous, anyways. He was rather used to his wife's effect on people, after a little over a year of marriage.  
  
She stepped back, smiling radiantly. Fel gently kissed her hand.  
  
"How have you been, Mrs. Fel," interrupted Phennir in his usual hapless way, completely destroying the moment. Inevitably, someone had to.  
  
"Worried sick about you boys, as usual, but otherwise fine, Turr. I heard you were in bacta most of your trip back; I do hope you're feeling better?"  
  
"Uh, yeah." All he could think of was how inane he sounded, a thought which always seemed to make things worse. "I mean, I got a huge scar down my face but I'm okay." It occurred to him that she would have to be blind not to notice. "I think it makes me look a lot less, well, pretty."  
  
"You looked fine then and you look fine now. One day I'm sure you'll find someone wonderful, Turr. Just you wait." She winked at him, then smiled benevolently at Fel.  
  
"Fel! Phennir! Mrs. Fel!" greeted Derricote,a bit too loud, as he waddled up to them. "You're finally back from that awful meeting, and look, company in our humble fighter bay!"  
  
"Oh, I'm hardly company," replied Wynssa. "You could say I married into the family." She found it necessary to reinforce certain facts rather frequently in Derricote's presence, the perverted lecher.  
  
"It went well enough," commented Fel.  
  
"Yeah. Told 'em what happened out there and that was about it."  
  
Derricote's eyes widened. "We are still performing at acceptable standards,aren't we?" He was continually paranoid about a return to their fomer, lower, status. This caused him to let Fel run things for him with little interference, something the entire wing was grateful for.  
  
"Yes, although I have some alternate drills in mind that I wish to beggin simming and some additonal training I think is in order."  
  
"Well, do whatever you think is best."  
  
"As ordered."  
  
Fel saluted and left with Wynssa on his arm. Phennir looked over his new TIE admiringly for the upteenth time, checking his kill marks for accuracy in both number and paint quality. Derricote retured to his greenhouse lair, where he continued his crossbreeding of two Corellian flowering Liannas. And all was again right with the One-Hundred-Eighty- First Imperial Fighter Group.  
  
*******  
  
"He is not force-sensitive, then?"  
  
"No reaction to the hidden Ylslarmi, at least."  
  
"But the water rations."  
  
"He could have been lucky."  
  
"Or outside involvement."  
  
"He is to be watched." 


End file.
